Rake to Riches (The London Lords Book 2)

by Nicola Davidson

  “Before George is dead, I want him to see me break her in every way possible. You might not have quite broken his body, but there is still his mind. If he does love her…”

  “Percival, I may have underestimated you. Do you wish to practice? You probably should, if Miss Donovan won’t give us an adequate ransom figure.”

  Smiling, Percival crouched down again. Withdrawing the dagger he always kept inside his boot, he took a section of ball gown hem in his other hand, and cut it as far up as her knee bindings. “Now,” he said softly, trailing the tip of the dagger along her bare leg. “We both know one hundred thousand is a pittance to a man like your father. The next step is either the easy way, which is you giving us a proper figure to write on the ransom note, or the hard way, which is me carving some of my own poetry into your skin until you do. Your choice.”

  Their captive gagged, coughed, and swallowed hard. Then she looked directly at Sir Malcolm. “A million. That is what he c-could authorize quickly. The bank won’t allow more than that without agreement from other family m-members.”

  “A million it is,” said Sir Malcolm, his eyes gleaming with avarice. “This plus George’s corpse, and I will be a rather satisfied man. Give me a section of hem, Percival, just to show we do hold her. If my demands are not met, then we can start sending…other things.”

  Percival got to his feet and bowed. “Then let the fun begin.”

  ~ * ~

  Striding up the stairs to the Donovans’ townhouse, George paused at the top and straightened his cravat for about the twentieth time. Foolish, probably, but as this was the most important day of his life to date, he wanted to look precisely the part of an earl who is perfect husband material.

  The front door opened, and a young butler smiled politely at him. “Yes, sir?”

  “Trentham, to see Mr. Donovan,” George replied in his most commanding voice.

  The man blinked, then bowed and gestured him inside. “Of course, my lord. Do come in. Would you mind waiting here for a moment? I’m not quite sure where he is. Possibly eating an early luncheon.”

  “Not at all,” said George, settling himself onto a high backed chair to wait.

  It wasn’t long, in fact only a few minutes before the familiar portly figure of Bertram Donovan hurried into the foyer, and George got to his feet immediately. “Mr. Donovan, sir.”

  “Lord Trentham, I…Good God. Mr. Howard? What fustian is this? Mrs. Donovan already informed me you were George Edwards. What kind of man has three damned names?”

  “A man who was in trouble,” said George with a rueful smile. “I apologize for the deception in the country—Mr. Howard was a temporary persona to resolve a serious financial issue. I’m pleased you got the close view of me here rather than at the ball last night, so I could explain in a more private setting.”

  “Well then. You’d better come into my study.”

  He followed the man into a room with dark paneling, maroon carpets, and shelves full of ledgers, and Bertram immediately settled himself behind a large oak desk. Hell. It was like jumping back in time to Eton and being summoned to the headmaster’s office to answer to a classroom prank or fistfight on the field. God knew he’d done that often enough.

  “About Gloucestershire,” he began, “I didn’t know Louisa was the heiress until I got there.”

  “Well, of course you didn’t,” said Bertram impatiently. “You know how many applicants we would have received if her name was bandied about? None. My daughter had already crushed the spirit of countless governesses and several comportment tutors.”

  “And…I needed the money,” he said hesitantly, unwilling to discuss the specific circumstances.

  Bertram’s lips pursed. “No need to explain, Glorious George. The poem I was shown from Belinda’s scandal sheet was rather educational. But now you have sufficient guineas, and ample grass and grounds, I take it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And after the incident…there are no, er, impediments to, ah, line continuity?”

  George somehow suppressed a sigh. How his daring, outrageous, hilarious Louisa had sprung from this stuffed shirt would probably never be fully explained. “Not at all, sir.”

  “Good. Wouldn’t want your sister to be the only one providing grandchildren. She and the baby are well?”

  “Babies,” he corrected, smiling. “Lord and Lady Westleigh are the proud parents of beautiful twin girls.”

  “Girls. Ah well. Better luck next time. So what are you expecting from me, then?”

  He gritted his teeth. “Nothing really. Louisa’s dowry could be put in trust for any children, or distributed as she sees fit. So just your blessing.”

  Bertram’s expression softened slightly, and he sat back in his chair. “Do you care for my daughter? I’ll tell you right now, I don’t look kindly on lords who flaunt their ladybirds here and there. Nor do I admire men who waste money on games of chance or dice.”

  “Gambling is something I have never done, nor will do. I’ve seen the destruction and the pain it can cause. I don’t plan to have a mistress. As for your daughter, I care for her a great deal,” he said simply. “Louisa is magnificent in every way.”

  “Indeed,” said the man, tugging on his cravat. “Then there is no more to be said. Go and fetch her inside, and I’ll give my blessing to the both of you. That’s if she hasn’t already crept in to press her ear to the door, the naughty chit. Most relieved you’ll be managing her now, rather than me.”

  George frowned. “Beg pardon?”

  “Good fortune filled your ears with soap, lad? Go and call her inside.”

  “But she’s here,” he said, his heart beginning to pound. “Louisa left well before me, because the physician needed to change my bandages.”

  Some of the color leeched from the older man’s cheeks. “Mrs. Donovan!” he bellowed, and seconds later his wife bustled in, clearly having been listening from the hallway.

  “Yes, Mr. Donovan?” said Louisa’s mother, bobbing a curtsy to George.

  “Where is Louisa?”

  The woman folded her arms. “At Grenville House. Where we left her, in the capable hands of the duke and duchess as a personal favor, remember?”

  “No,” said George hoarsely. “She was put in a carriage to come here nearly two hours ago.”

  Bertram staggered to his feet and braced both hands on the desk. “Where is my daughter? Belinda will know. Belinda! Belinda come down here at once!”

  It took five excruciating minutes, but eventually Louisa’s companion came running through the study door. “Yes, sir?”

  “Where is Louisa? Is she bathing, perhaps? Resting?”

  “No, sir,” said Belinda, her forehead creasing.

  “Fiddling with some gunpowder? I won’t mind if she is, I promise.”

  The older woman shot George a wide-eyed look before addressing Mr. Donovan. “No, sir. All the scientific materials were, ah, left in the country.”

  George swallowed hard as unease made the leap to terror. Where the hell was his fiancée? She wouldn’t have gone anywhere else, not today. All she had was the ball gown to wear. And she disliked shopping anyway. More to the point, Innes had assured him Louisa had been whisked away by a Grenville carriage…

  Fuck.

  Even in town, there were several at the family’s disposal. And his father had sent Charity and Percival away in one of them when he’d banished them. Could they have taken Louisa? It seemed too ridiculous a thought to even contemplate.

  Except when you knew what they had done. What cold-blooded lies and ruthless acts one scheming woman and one ambitious man were capable of. And if Percival had been closely acquainted with Kildaire…fuck.

  “I’m sending for the Watch,” said Bertram as he mopped his perspiring face with a linen handkerchief. “My daughter has been abducted. Hasn’t she?”

  “I’m not sure,” said George unevenly. “But I think yes. And that perhaps two relatives of mine might be involved.”

 
“What?” snapped Margaret Donovan. “Why on earth would they do such a terrible thing?”

  A sharp knock on the study door sounded before he could answer, and the Donovans’ butler hurried into the room. “I’m sorry to disturb, sir, but this just arrived,” he said to Bertram, placing a large envelope on the desk. “It is addressed to both you…and Lord Trentham.”

  “Dear God,” said Louisa’s father, his head bowing. “You open it. I cannot.”

  Ice slithered down George’s spine. When had anything good arrived in a large envelope? Forcing himself to move, he picked up the envelope and ripped free the small dot of sealing wax. There were two objects inside.

  One was a folded note.

  The other, a torn square of white and silver fabric, with several spots of blood decorating it.

  Belinda screamed. Margaret Donovan swooned. Bertram Donovan sank back into his chair and covered his face with his hands. Black dots danced in George’s vision, and for one awful moment he thought he was going to join Louisa’s mother and sprawl on the carpet. But after several deep breaths, he managed to unfold the note.

  Donovan and Trentham,

  We have Miss Donovan. The object accompanying this note will confirm this to be true. If you follow the instructions in this letter carefully, she will not be harmed overmuch. But time is of the essence. Lord Trentham is instructed to bring a bank draft for one million pounds to Number 10, Whitechapel Road. He must come alone. If the Watch or a constable is informed, Miss Donovan will die. If a force of footmen or family members accompany Lord Trentham, Miss Donovan will die. You have until precisely one o’clock this afternoon.

  There was no signature, but at the bottom of the note, one further line.

  Make the correct decision, George. You know how effective my cane can be. Do not force me to use it on the young lady.

  He staggered backward, a roar of pain and rage and fear tearing from his throat.

  Only one man would write such a threat. All their hopes and prayers and wishes had been for nothing.

  Sir Malcolm was alive. And he had Louisa.

  ~ * ~

  Breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

  Lying on her side atop the thin mattress, Louisa forced herself to concentrate on that simple exercise rather than screaming. She was being held captive by two madmen, and this definitely was not a situation where one of them negotiated with calm words and kindness, and the other with pain and fear. Both would kill her without second thought or remorse.

  In. Out. In. Out.

  Her whole body hurt, and the dull pain constantly threatened to explode into agony. Especially her swollen and bruised face and throat. Blood has also dried on her cheek and chin, and it itched unbearably, but she couldn’t clean it off. And her arms ached, twisted as they were behind her back, with the coarse rope rubbing her wrists raw. Her knees were somewhat protected by her gown. Well, at least they would be if that damned bastard didn’t start shredding the fabric again with his dagger.

  Percival Grenville. How such a revolting specimen could be related to the finest of men like George and Howard, she couldn’t fathom. Apart from his eyes, he didn’t even look like them, with his slender build and much shorter height. And he didn’t have a single drop of warmth or humor. Just a coldness, and a complete lack of conscience that made her skin crawl. No wonder he had been friends with Lord Kildaire. They were two of a kind.

  As for Sir Malcolm, nothing further could be said on his thuggery. From the minute she had seen him in the carriage, it was clear he was hell-bent on a path of destruction. He took pleasure in inflicting pain, but just as much in weaving word spells that trapped a mind in darkness. It was again a measure of George’s strength of character that he had never been broken by his stepfather’s violence or threats, or left his mother alone with the man, and she loved him all the more for it.

  “Half-past twelve, Miss Donovan,” said Percival, with his viperish smile as he crouched again beside her. “We gave your father and George until one o’clock, although George was instructed to bring the money by himself. I do hope he arrives soon. I simply cannot wait to have you in front of him. What would be worse for him, do you think? Hearing your pain, or hearing your pleasure? They can be one and the same thing. I learned that from our mutual friend Lord Kildaire. His house parties were just splendid.”

  Bile rose in her throat, but she choked it down, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her be ill. “George will be here, and then you will be so very sorry.”

  He chuckled. “Sorry is not something I indulge in. I daresay neither does Sir Malcolm.”

  “Why?” The word burst from Louisa’s lips before she could halt it. “Why are you doing this?”

  Percival’s eyebrows rose in disdain. “Someone as lowborn as you would hardly understand.”

  Thinking fast, because if this evil man was talking or bragging, he wasn’t doing something far worse, Louisa forced her lips into a coaxing smile. “True. I could only imagine what it is like to be one so high as a Grenville. One of the leading families of the north.”

  “Not one of,” he snapped. “The leading family. Far superior to the Percys or the Nevilles or the Howards of Carlisle, no matter what is said.”

  “Of course,” she murmured. “And such an ancient title.”

  “Yes. Hundreds of years old. Such history. Such tradition. Howard and his offspring are utterly unworthy.”

  “Why?” she said, this time genuinely curious. From everything she had seen of Howard, he was fair and just, and his servants appeared to both like and respect him a great deal.

  Percival got to his feet and began to pace. “Because!” he shouted, his hands gesturing wildly. “Howard was fool-headed enough when he was young, marrying a tailor’s daughter. A tailor’s daughter! But then he was further infected by the colonials and their ideas of equality. Once he returned, he gave all the servants an increase in wages. Those scum should be seen but never heard, and Howard talks to them! And he won’t touch the maids, in fact, threw a viscount out of Mannering Castle for doing so, when it is a God-given due for aristocrats to use servants in any way they choose. When I am Duke of Mannering, all this nonsense will be put to rights.”

  Her stomach churning wildly, Louisa stared at the dusty floor. Madman didn’t begin to describe Percival Grenville. And she didn’t actually want to hear another word on his disgusting view of how the world would be if he were in charge. Apparently he was married, but she couldn’t imagine the kind of life the poor woman had. Much like Emily with Sir Malcolm, probably.

  Without warning, she was lifted again by her hair, the vicious pull bringing tears to her eyes, and a fist driven hard into her solar plexus. As she gasped for breath, Percival stared down at her, his eyes wild. “You aren’t listening to me!” he screamed, and punched her twice more, before taking his dagger and slicing through her knee bonds.

  Terror jolted through her. Oh God. This was it. He was going to rape or kill her in a frenzy of rage.

  “Percival,” barked Sir Malcolm, and miraculously, he paused. “Your efforts are wasted now. Save your strength.”

  “I’m tired of waiting,” said Percival, stomping his foot. “I’ve waited years and years and years for this. And this little whore is so very insolent. She needs to be taught a stern lesson.”

  “I know she does. Why do you think her and George are a match? Because they are just the same. But you won’t have to wait much longer. In fact…you won’t have to wait any further time at all.”

  Percival dropped her back onto the floor and ran over to where the magistrate stood by the window that overlooked Whitechapel Road. “George has arrived?”

  “He has. See, just there.”

  Louisa closed her eyes.

  And began to pray.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Number 10 Whitechapel Road was a nondescript building, a cheaply constructed brick and timber-framed structure like so many others nearby. Utterly unremarkable, except for what might be happening insi
de to Louisa.

  And he couldn’t think about that. Not if he wanted to retain some part of his sanity.

  Sucking in a huge breath to try to control the terror coursing through his body at the knowledge that two such fucking soulless bastards had his fiancée, George squared his shoulders and walked toward the low front steps. The bank draft with the staggering number on it was tucked in his jacket pocket, but neither Sir Malcolm nor Percival would ever get their hands on it. The only outcome George allowed himself to imagine was the one where he walked back outside, Louisa safely in his arms. Behind him a scene of fatal violence, for that could be the only end, with these two men involved. No more would they casually, and with a certain sick enjoyment, destroy the lives of others or prey upon the vulnerable.

  As he climbed the steps and shoved open the front door, a faint clink of metal reminded him he wasn’t entirely helpless. While it was bizarre to be trussed up like some sort of mercenary, there was a certain comfort in the various weapons pressing into his body. One pistol tucked into his waistband, another in his jacket. Palm-sized daggers were strapped to his right thigh, and tucked into his left boot. All provided by Bertram and his team of surprisingly well-equipped and trained footmen. Well, perhaps not surprising at all, with the enormous Donovan wealth at stake.

  The ground floor of the unwelcoming building was near empty, with only some tattered curtains hanging limply against the dirty windows, two chairs, and a rickety wooden table in one corner. Naturally, Sir Malcolm and Percival Grenville would choose the second floor for this occasion, only accessible by a single narrow staircase. They weren’t fools.

  A harsh scrape and creak sounded. Then footsteps, and Percival appeared at the top of the stairs. “George. Five minutes before one o’clock is cutting it rather finely.”

  His gut churned as he slowly ascended the stairs. “My apologies. Overturned cart.”

  “Ugh. They shouldn’t even be allowed in London. Not during the day, anyway. So uncivilized, all that live poultry and fruit and vegetables and cheap ale being lugged about by uncouth man-mountains amongst the carriages and curricles of refined people.”